


Risk Your Health for Me

by Blake



Series: Constant Debauchery [2]
Category: AFI (Band), Music RPF
Genre: Alpha/Alpha, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Degradation, Established Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Impact Play, Kink, Knotting, M/M, Masochism, Name-Calling, Open Relationships, Period-Typical Homophobia, Religion Kink, Sacrilege, Smut, Spit Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29993256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: Harry has been spending a lot of time in the chapel lately. It’s the one place Louis doesn’t follow.
Relationships: Davey Havok/Harry Styles
Series: Constant Debauchery [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2206212
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Risk Your Health for Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HurdyGurdy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HurdyGurdy/gifts).



> I don't know if this counts as a "gift" but I wrote it for my dear friend Jen's birthday! I hope it's not TOO crazy. I restrained myself from taking my afislash-dot-com nostalgia too far and turning Davey into a ghost/demon/vampire.
> 
> Zero research or world-building went into this, and I gave up on any language consistency because I felt like it. Please be advised Louis is not present in this story and there's content that might be considered infidelity by some people. I had so much fun writing it and I hope someone enjoys reading it too. 
> 
> I can't remember if I shared the fic playlist before, but it's [right here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5Vpv273oOXCZ6z4qVkbt89?si=nJ8InA_BRZy8G-maOwJwAg).

The chapel is mostly empty today, so it’s easy to make his way quickly toward the back corner, where the series of stained glass windows depicts the later days of the life of the man who believed himself to be the son of God. Harry loves to look closely at these depictions of the events before the crucifixion. He wonders what it felt like for this man to put himself freely into the hands of God, to so thoroughly believe that he could trust his fate to someone else that he could let himself be hurt, to not care about reward for his suffering, because the suffering was the reward, because the suffering was an expression of love.

Harry has been spending a lot of time in the chapel lately. It’s the one place Louis doesn’t follow.

Through the wan flesh of Christ’s lashed torso in the stained glass, Harry can see the bright greens and blues of the warm spring day outside. Somewhere out there, he knows, is Louis: the friend whom he somehow tricked into believing Harry is a good, strong person worthy of admiring; the lover with whom he shares the most careful, delicate exchange of consensual desire; the partner who makes every effort to avoid causing Harry pain.

“You look thoughtful today.”

Harry startles, turns his head to see a boy sitting beside him. At the sight, his stomach drops, the way it always does when this boy meets his eyes from across the chapel; they’ve never spoken before, but Harry has seen him here enough times to catalogue the iron-red flash of his brown eyes under filtered sunlight, the black smudge of his untidy hair, the decisive jut of his chin, the perpetual playful suck of his thin pink lips, and the delicateness of his pale fingers around the pen he always seems to be carrying.

At the sudden flood of his proximity—(close enough to breathe in the smoke-and-salt scent of his skin)—and the ensuing, arousing realization that he’s spent enough time looking at this boy that his gaze must have come across as an invitation of sorts, Harry can’t find enough breath to put two words together.

“Unless I misinterpreted your look,” the boy says, lifting a dark, shapely eyebrow. There’s no apology in the smirk of his lips, only a gentle amusement; if Harry says it was a misinterpretation, he has no doubt the boy will know it’s nothing but a cowardly dismissal.

“No,” he chokes out.

The boy smiles, black lashes fluttering down to his cheek as he slides closer on the pew. Harry’s heartrate quickens when their eyes meet again. Then the boy sets down his pen to lie with the book he holds close to his heart, and he extends his narrow, ink-stained hand, saying, “Davey.”

“Harry.” His words dry up again when his palm slides against Davey’s, which is cool and soft as silk. Fingers brush across the inside of Harry’s wrist.

“So,” Davey says, releasing his hand. This close up, Harry can see there’s sadness in the smile, the deep, underlying kind that excites Harry with the prospect of there being so much more to the world than he sees every day. “If I didn’t misinterpret your look”—here, a playful, sidelong glance into Harry’s eyes—“then what is it that you’re so thoughtful about?”

_I passionately loathe inequality and earned my lover’s trust by convincing him that equality is the only strong foundation for intimacy, but my rut’s coming on and all I can think about is the one thing I could never ask for—_

“I can tell it’s not about the purity of God’s love,” Davey says in the continuing silence as Harry tries to stumble across a thought that can be spoken aloud.

_—being mounted and bred and made to feel small and helpless and treated like someone’s omega._

“Quite the opposite, actually,” Harry makes himself say, mindful of the way his low voice echoes in stone walls.

Davey’s hand settles on the plank of wood between them, close enough Harry would touch it if he lowered his hand as well. He stares at it, feeling wretched and guilty and _alive_ , while Davey says, “Oh? The purity of the devil’s love?”

The whole conversation is unexpected, but it’s the first thing shocking enough to make him laugh. He puts his hand down to brace himself against the wood and lets Davey’s fingers stretch to settle over his. “No,” he says, because he’s certain Davey knows very well that he meant _the impurity of God’s love_ and is only trying to trick Harry into talking. “What about you? What are you thinking about?”

Davey’s tongue flicks across his lower lip. Harry wonders why the sight of it cinches his stomach, when there’s a perfect, devoted boy waiting for him on the other side of this blood-stained glass. “I’m wondering,” Davey says, slowing his melodic nasal voice to an adagio, “if you’re like me: alone, lonely, _different_.”

There’s a flash of pain in his dark eyes as he says the last word and it strikes a chord deep in Harry’s chest. “I’m two of the three,” he says, as solemn and steady as he can, trying to avoid inflicting any more pain.

“Let me try again,” Davey says, the corner of his mouth twisting self-deprecatingly into the fine plane of his cheek. “Alone, lonely, and—an alpha?” The last part comes out hushed, secret: as it should be, and yet it feels like a secret designed just to skitter down Harry’s spine.

Harry shifts his hips and turns his body to better face Davey, and manages a smile he hopes is kind. “Lonely, different, and an alpha,” he says, allowing Davey to interpret that the missing quality is _alone_.

Understanding softens the tension in Davey’s features. He turns his face down, and Harry worries that he has saddened him, but then he sees Davey is simply bending down to scribble words across a page of his book. “If your loneliness ever makes you alone,” Davey says, tearing out the page to press tenderly into the palm of Harry’s hand, “you can find me here.”

~

For two days, it’s all Harry can think of. The lightning-flash of danger he’d seen in Davey’s eyes interrupts his focus on Louis’s kisses. The ink of the address pulses in his hand where it hides in his pocket, and he finds himself reciting its numbers in his mind instead of reading. He sees the hook of Louis’s sharp teeth and thinks of how deep they could bite, wonders if could ever be so wicked as the whip of Davey’s tongue between his lips.

And so he finally tells Louis, in several bursts over the course of a painful hour. 

_If I needed to. Do something with someone else. To learn something about myself. To be better for you. Would you trust me. I’m yours. I just. I want to try. I don’t want to hurt you._

They come to something like an agreement, though it’s nothing pleasant and they both have red, swollen eyes in the morning.

With red, swollen eyes and trembling hands, Harry knocks on the door of the address written on the page in his pocket. From the outside, it looks to be a shabby room in a shabby building in a shabby part of town, and it occurs to him that he knows nothing about Davey’s age, background, or occupation, and yet he feels in his bones that Davey knows _him_.

Davey answers the door with a smile that settles Harry’s stomach after hours of anxious nausea.

Harry stumbles forward and hovers with his face tilted over Davey’s, surprised to find how much shorter he is, how slight a shadow he seems, and yet how powerfully he holds Harry’s gaze in the depths of his own. “I want—” Harry swallows, lowers his voice to a whisper, because the door behind him hasn’t yet shut, and he won’t be ready to let it until he finds out—“It doesn’t make sense, but—”

“What is it?” Davey asks, his murmur wide and welcoming, his fingertips cool on Harry’s cheek.

“Would you hurt me?” he asks, and then, when Davey’s hand doesn’t falter on his skin, he can’t stop: “Would you degrade me and—” His breath stops short at the catch of Davey’s nails at his neck, at the tie of his cravat. He cinches his eyes shut and the rest of his words come out like a hiss: “Would you breed me like I’m your bitch?”

Davey hums, high and dark. The door falls shut behind them. Without opening his eyes—(if he keeps them closed, he’ll never have to face the fact that the words came out of his mouth)—he feels Davey’s hand take his. Their joined fingers drag down the front of Davey’s clothes, and then Harry’s palm fills with the bleed of heat, the swelling line of a long, shapely cock through trousers, and it’s as if he’s been put here just to feel the blistering surge in his hand when Davey presses a kiss to his ear and whispers, “I’ll make you my good little bitch.”

In that moment, Harry feels perfect, _made_ perfect by the way Davey’s looking at him and hardening in his hand at the thought of Harry’s submission. But in a horrible twist of fate, the emotion suddenly renders Harry utterly incapable of doing anything right at all; he starts crying, even as his own prick stiffens and his limbs go slack.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Davey promises him about the crying, some time later, after they’ve shared a pot of cheap tea and Harry has agonized over making sure Davey understands that he doesn’t _really_ think omegas are inherently weak or submissive and that he really _does_ love Louis, and Davey has assured him over and over again that it’s okay to feel that there’s a difference between wanting _to be an omega_ and wanting to be _someone’s omega_ , but that even if Harry did want to be an omega, it would still be all right to feel the way he does.

Harry laughs at the thought of Davey keeping the fragile secret of him _crying_. “What did I do to deserve you?” he asks, sincerely grateful for this moment, this illusion of pure clarity. 

Seeing the laughter, Davey smiles, sets his tea down, and walks over to Harry’s chair. “Nothing, yet,” he says. Harry tilts his head up to maintain eye contact while Davey bends over him, and Davey holds him by the back of his skull. “But you’re going to be so good for me, aren’t you, my pretty omega slut?”

In his haste to nod his head in agreement, Harry forgets the hands clenched tightly in his hair, and the sting brings a different kind of tears to his eyes. He waits for Davey to say something else, but the next thing to come from his pink lips is a thick, white ball of spit, heavy and sticky and falling slowly toward Harry’s upturned mouth. Without a single thought in his mind besides a resounding _yes-yes-yes_ , Harry takes it in his mouth, moaning as he swallows. 

Most of Davey’s hand shoves into his mouth then; it feels like his fingers trace the path of his slick saliva, stroking deep along his tongue, up against his throat. Harry’s fully hard in an instant, and he moans so eagerly it’s a struggle to keep from biting down on the bones between his teeth. “I thought so,” Davey says.

Harry _thought_ he was fully hard, but he reaches new heights just a few minutes later, when he’s bent over the edge of a narrow bed with his trousers pooled around his knees and Davey’s hand smacks hard and fast across his skin until he feels hot and broken enough to bleed. “Yes,” he whimpers when Davey lowers his voice to ask if he should keep going.

He’s leaking pitifully all over the floor between his knees by the time Davey stands before him and eases his cock slowly into Harry’s mouth and throat. It’s a bigger mouthful than he’s ever had before, so good and full he just loses himself to the flood of drool dripping down his chin and neck, lets his breath be replaced by the taste of Davey’s heat on his tongue. He coughs when Davey pulls out abruptly, and can’t open his eyes against the sting even when Davey says, commanding but never stern, “Look what you did.” But Harry can feel what he did, can feel the hard swell of a knot rubbing against his lips, and it’s good, he _knows_ it’s good, but the way Davey sounds disappointed in him makes him burn with want. “Now I have to stretch you out enough to fit _this_ inside you.”

It takes _ages_ to do so, but the smarting slaps of Davey’s hand against his bottom makes it easier, somehow, to loosen up around the fingers pushing deep inside him. When Davey finally lays across him, pressing him heavily into the bed and sliding his cock in until Harry’s aching body has no choice but to stretch that much wider and accept the knot pushing past his rim, it feels final, inexorable, and the best, fullest thing Harry has ever had. “Fuck,” Davey whispers against the back of his neck, barely audible over the sounds of Harry’s own panting breaths, “Such a good little hole for my knot. I’m going to fill it up, and you’re going to take it all, all of it.”

And Harry _is_ going to, he has _no choice_ but to, tied to Davey like this until he spends inside—(and even if it’s not technically true, even if Davey would go still and wait long enough to slip out if Harry asked him to, it still feels incredibly good to pretend)—and it’s enough to make his spine snap, pushing back into the pressure as a whine falls from his throat. “Open up,” Davey says with his fingers at Harry’s mouth. Harry swallows them down to quiet himself as Davey’s short, deep thrusts inside him punch the air from his lungs. “Fuck, my good little—good little—”

Harry doesn’t get too hear what good little thing he is, because Davey goes quiet and still and his cock pulses, coating Harry’s insides with heat.

And instead of pulling out, Davey keeps shoving back in, slow and teasing-gentle as he starts to grow hard again. “Ready for some more?” Davey asks.

Harry smiles into the pillow his face is smashed against. He’s never been more ready.

~

They share another pot of tea, after, and Davey uses his pen to write down some words they agree might help Harry talk to Louis about what he wants. “Of course,” Davey says, snake-like tongue flicking out across his lips once more, “If he’s not enough for you, you can always come back here.”

But it’s not in Davey’s home that Harry sees him next; it’s in the chapel, tucked amidst the pews, dark eyes shining with a rainbow of colors from the stained-glass sinners above him, and a silent, knowing smile that’s shared from across the room.


End file.
